Red Royal Flush
by didyouknowanon
Summary: ‘When he returns to Earth- gasping, slowly, slowly, atom bomb- everything has slipped away again.’ Ivan and Alfred post WWIII and the absence of the Dragon in the room. America feels himself that little bit more insane.


**Red Royal Flush.**

_America and Russia post WWIII. Russia's house has been renovated, but America can't remember the absence of the dragon in the room._

_Response to Kink Meme prompt: Russia/America, post WWIII_

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He has done something wrong, America thinks detachedly. Somewhere inside, he has become a monster. Like the man lying next to him.

"No, you didn't. It is the Chinaman who started it."

Russia's house is cleaner than America remembers it, back when the strain of the Cold War had stripped the walls of paper and gold leaf. Now, there is fresh plaster everywhere and his own housewarming gift is on the wall (a world mapped out by Russia's new satellite technology; and how appropriate, now that the world is all theirs). There is no Old Majesty and decoration anymore, because this time Russia has clothes which fit him and the money to build his _own_ house, the way _he_ wanted it. Now, Russia's house is a mix of modern democratic comforts and cold, cold communist efficiency.

The sheets on which Alfred lies are still as red as a socialist sunrise.

"The gas pipe-line is much better now that Ukraine has come back home." He can practically hear the childish smile on the other's lips. "She agrees with us. We share gas and oil with our friends. What you say…'Good News'."

(Of course she agrees. No one disagrees with America. No one disagrees with Russia. It follows that, after the war, no one would deny the two of them together anything.)

Alfred knows that there is something wrong with him. In some deep entrenched part of him, something retches at the thought of lying comfortable in _Russia's_ bed. He thinks that at one point, this must have been bad, but America is still young. He is young and doesn't study history like Arthur had always told him to, so his memory isn't what it should be. He vaguely remembers the Cold War, and he knows about the Great Depression and the World Wars, but he doesn't really recall what he and Ivan had been arguing about back then. In a world where all his people want the present and the future and want it _now_, there very little place for the past.

"China," he says, wetting his lips. Russia shifts so that their bare arms touch at the elbows and turns his head. "We should be cleaning up. The UN is angry at my boss."

"Mine too." Ivan's laugh rings out humourlessly. "But I have never cared for them. Neither have you. They hated after Afghanistan, and Iraq, and Iran, and Korea's fool of a brother. That didn't stop you."

"No." Why had he invaded Afghanistan again? Alfred stares at Ivan's purple eyes, feeling the distance between them. "I guess it didn't."

Russia babbles on about important world affairs while America fixes his eyes on the ceiling. Germany is angry. He is the one who is rallying the European Union to _say_ something, _do_ something, _verdammt nochmal! _Italy is also up in arms, but Greece just sits on his ruins and sips Ouzo. France chases skirts, while Austria composes pieces in C-Minor. Asia is just too far away. And what can they do now, after it is all over? (And Russia is ever Russia, that Great Bear of an elephant in the room. Latvia thinks they are all cowards. They are not. They are just afraid.)

England doesn't speak to Alfred anymore, but still looks like he is in a state of shock. He spends more and more time talking to his siblings nowadays- Australia and New Zealand look to their older brother for support. Matthew acts as a go between. Increasingly, Arthur is simply a symbol of what Europe has become. Crippled by the financial crisis and the Second Depression of so many years ago, they have become largely irrelevant.

At least _his_ people have money, America thinks in a strange wave of viciousness. Money and _oil_. The economy is better than it has been in decades. Russia's economy has boomed. Russia has Siberia and the Arctic circle. Alfred has the Middle East. They have everything they need.

Ivan's thick fingers trace his bare chest. He is almost tender these days. He welcomes Alfred into his home with open arms- Alfred had helped to fund his renovations, after all. Not for free. Nothing in this world is for free.

_Fuck._ America needs more Vodka.

"Mongolia is not happy to be one with my household. But you are good with these sort of things, da? Talk to her. People listen when America talks."

He snorts. "Not any more. I don't remember when people listened to me and believed me." He's not sure such a time ever existed. America's clear blue eyes are refreshingly blank of anything before the present, beyond his next Big Mac. Russia, on the other hand, throws away his past with savage disregard, but forgets _nothing_.

Ivan pushes himself upwards and presses one hand against America's heart. "Trust me. America trusts Russia, and Russia says that people will still listen to you." He lowers his voice to a whisper against the other's lips. "They _have_ to listen to us."

Russia's kiss tastes like gunpowder. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, denying that there is a swooping feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with arousal. He lifts his arms to grab onto Ivan's hair and _pulls_. Their sex has always been rough. He runs his tongue along Russia's palate as he looms over him, all flesh and muscle and cold skin, and each brush of his fingers down his sides sends sparks shooting off in his brain.

His hands fumble with the buckles on his trousers, but Ivan stops him with a sudden thrust of the hips which send them both into a whirl of gasps and caught breaths. "You don't have to worry," Ivan says breathlessly, growling. He laves his tongue over America's neck, down his clavicle, wetly over a nipple. America rubs Russia's lower back, moaning lowly. "America is always right, da?"

Finally, he has Russia's belt off in his hand and his pants down around his knees. He kneads the junction between Ivan's fleshy thighs and his arse, fingers shaking. Then, the other's erection drives into the bulge in his own pants, tightening that delicious coil stretched between them, and he continues to grind- hard pressure unrelenting, even when they both begin to whimper in pleasure-pain.

That's it, Alfred remembers, just as Ivan reaches into his pants and unzips them and the two of them are suddenly frotting themselves wantonly against each other. He pants into Russia's ear, onto his neck, and remembers that the Cold War had something to do with missiles. But that is so far away now, and Russia's thick fingers are circling his hole just barely, and Alfred pulls his face down again for a fevered kiss that is more teeth and saliva than lips. He groans- no, _keens_, like an animal- as one finger presses against his entrance. He needs something _now_. Always now. Because what is the point of being caught up in the past when the present feels so wonderful?

Russia's lube amounts to spit on palms and the drips of pre-come on their stomachs. He forcibly rolls America on his front, but Alfred protests, rising and baring his teeth like a wild thing. "Goddammit, this alliance is equal!" he bites through the pleasure pulsing in his groin. Russia silences him with a kiss, rubbing slippery hands between them, but two can play at that game. He forces one finger into Russia, then two when the other country grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. Then three, and Russia is panting and twitching, fingers slackening their grip on their erections. America feels the sweet tang of victory on his lips.

It is abruptly wiped out of his mouth by a punch to the stomach and one arm closing around his throat. His neck snaps forward, his head is forced down into the sheets, but that isn't important, because the elbow against his windpipe is too close. _He can't breathe_, but when he opens his mouth to complain he feels Russia thrust into him, deep, and he lets out a strangled moan.

Russia continues as if everything is normal, one hand reaching down to stroke America's leaking cock while the other keeps it's death grip on his neck. The room begins to waver because he can't get enough oxygen, but even in this strange submerged state, the thrill shooting through him with every pump of Russia's wide hands is clearly defined. Even _more_ so than normal, and he feel himself rising to an unusually early climax. Every frenzied beat of his heart resonates within him like a hammer Alfred closes his eyes, thoughts dizzying without air, the pleasure making him feel like he's floating and losing control of his own body.

Then, America thinks he might black-out-

_(-Yao's eyes flatten when he liberates North Korea and the air between them freezes._

-_Russia and China argue about the future of their communist neighbour. The world is poor and there is not enough oil for everyone._

_-Russia tells him, over Vodka in the UN, that he doesn't like China much at all. He is broke._

_-America needs the oil in the Middle East._

_-Russia and China are at war- North Korea, communism, oil, money and hunger all in one._

_-Suddenly, America is afraid of this man in China's clothes who isn't scared of Ivan anymore._

_-'The quickest way to China is through the Middle East,' Ivan whispers to him months later. His pipe is red with Chinese blood, but his scarf is tattered and he looks weary. America spits in his face._

_-A year later, Russia limps around the UN, still avoiding China in the corridors. Alfred, for the first time in his life, thinks that Russia may be smaller than he first thought. But then he smiles at him with a desperate grin. 'China is weak. Why not take what you want?' -)_

_-_he stiffens and cries out and swallows it by biting Russia's fingers from the arm around his neck, sharp and vicious, just as his eyes roll backwards and he comes _hard_. Thrusts continue to come during, adding more stimulation, _too_ much, until finally he dimly feels the other orgasm inside of him.

_(-Better the devil you know, than the devil you don't.-)_

When he returns to Earth- gasping, slowly, _slowly, atom bomb_- everything has slipped away again.

"When…when…" he just manages to pant out as they collapse, Ivan still inside him. "…When did this all start? When…why?"

Ivan pauses, face in the crook of his shoulder and his hand still there around his neck. He suddenly relaxes his hold and pulls away, turning the smaller nation to face him. The seconds pass in silence as they stare at each other. Then, Russia gives him an odd, solemn little smile. "Does that really matter?" he says quietly. "You're happy. I'm happy. This is enough for now."

Looking into Ivan's eyes, America can't shake the feeling that the other country looks a little saner, a little younger than he remembers. Maybe it's because evil likes company. Maybe it's just because Russia has never had a real friend before. And as sick as that is, after the atrocities that the two of them have committed together, he supposes it makes sense. Ivan rises and pads on silent big-cat feet to the bathroom. His voice comes floating through the door.

"Africa is still wanting aid. Their crying is irritating. We can but be sparing a few billion dollars, comrade?"

America sits up and struggles with his memories, and feels himself that little bit more insane.

"…Yes. We can afford it."


End file.
